


running you with red

by orphan_account



Category: American Horror Story
Genre: Basically PWP??, Blood!Kink, Bloodplay, F/M, If you have a weak stomach don't even bother reading, This is just sick and messed up in every way, This is my first time writing het smut don't judge ok, there's a little bit of a plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-22
Updated: 2013-10-22
Packaged: 2017-12-30 04:38:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1014198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And it’s like something clicks in him, the heat in his gut turns solid and starts to fill him, twisting his mouth into a sinister smile. He gets up, examines the crap on the desk in Violet’s old room--his old room--and grins, finding his prize. He walks back to the bed wielding the letter opener, handle smooth and shiny.</p>
<p>“Remember this?” he asks, eyebrows raised, and Violet blushes, no doubt remembering the thrill of seeing only the handle, blood-spattered and cold, protruding from Tate’s momentarily lifeless body, the whole of the blade shoved deep into his heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	running you with red

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time writing a het fic, so don't be too mean!  
> (Also I've never really written anything so messed up before, so it was a bit of an exploration for me.)  
> For my lovely th'y'la Hannah, who, in addition to a lingerie!kink has a bloodplay!kink :)

They should add Christmas trees to the list of murder weapons in Clue, that mystery board game her parents used to play, she thinks. In fact, as she looks back on the past few days, she can’t help but bite down a smirk at the thought of all the items they could add to the list. A letter opener, a coffee table, the fucking pasta arm in the kitchen, and now the Christmas tree that stood so majestically in the foyer, the last attempt at clinging to some semblance of a normal life.

She stares at where the tree is lying on its side, pine needles sprinkled generously across the wood floor and ornaments rolling every which way. She waits. A bell jingles somewhere on the other side of the tree, and she exhales.

“Alright, I’m alive. You can storm off now.” Tate’s muffled voice floats from under branches, and she can hear his sick, satisfied smile.

“No,” she says firmly, “let me see.”

The tree shakes as Tate attempts to shimmy out from under it, bells jingling and tinsel dragging like sandpaper across the branches. He finally manages to stand, and he holds his arms out, offering his body for her to survey.

There are slashes covering his face, but she can’t tell if they’re from the branches or from a couple of sharp ornaments. She shrugs; it doesn’t matter, really. Though she’s seen it dozens of times by now, she can’t help but gasp as Tate’s body repairs itself before her. His skin slides back into place, scarlet blood pouring back into his wounds, or maybe evaporating, she isn’t sure. And then he’s Tate again, pale skin soft and smooth and unbroken.

“I gotta admit,” Tate finally says with a tentative smile, “killing someone with a Christmas tree is pretty fucking badass.”

She doesn’t answer, just looks at him, remembers everything that she’d been trying so hard to block out. He’d tried, he really had. Tate had done everything he could, done his best to do what was right. And she knew that. But the thought of him, cold and unfeeling, wrapped in squeaky black latex and shoving himself into her mother, it was--no, she couldn’t think about it.

But then there was the Tate who had dragged her pathetic, half-alive body into a bathtub, who had shoved his fingers down her throat under the running faucet and tried to help her live, even though every morsel of his body worshipped death like a religion. And he’d tried to keep the truth from her, tried to protect her until she was ready to hear it. And she’s thankful for that, really, she is, because every time she pictures her lifeless body curled in the crawlspace, she can feel little insects crawling in the cracks between her teeth.

“So,” Tate says slowly, “do you think you’ve murdered me enough yet? Or do I still have a few more coming?”

“Shut up.” She rolls her eyes, turns to walk away.

“Violet, wait,” he calls after her, catching up. And he’s there in front of her, on the line of invading her space, and he manages (with difficulty, she knows) to keep the distance between them palpable, so he doesn’t scare her away.

“I get it, okay?” he says, eyes pleading, “I understand why you’re upset. But you have to forgive me. You have to.”

She angles her body slightly toward him, and that’s all it takes. He’s a tornado rushing at her, picking her up into his spiral and carrying her away in the wind and dust. He wraps his arms around her, kisses her face, her neck, and he’s whispering to her, _I’m sorry_ and _I love you_ and _thank you for not giving up on me_.

Somehow they end up in her bed, limbs tangled and her hair draped across his face. 

“I know you understand it now,” he says, swiping his thumb gently across her cheek. She nods, swallows. 

“I could never make the first kill, though,” she says, jaw tense, “I could never take someone’s life away.”

“Believe it or not, that’s my least favorite part, Violet,” he says. “I hate the first kill, I hate tying a person to a place for eternity, for changing their life forever. But it’s what has to be done if you’re gonna get to the good stuff.”

She nods again, words escaping her.

“You get it though, right?” he asks, “After? The way you can slice someone’s skin clean off just to watch it slide back together like a jigsaw puzzle? The way blood looks so beautiful against skin, red and bright and thick. You understand.”

And she does, though it twists something deep inside her to admit it. There had been a sort of unhealthy amount of satisfaction all those times she’d killed Tate, and she knew it went beyond the fact that it was Tate himself. And now she knew why.

“So I’m a sick fucker like you, now, I guess.” She laughs, dodging his playful swat.

“I like you better this way,” he whispers.

“Maybe I always have been,” she shrugs. “God knows I’m fascinated with the macabre. Probably why I was so attracted to you to begin with. I knew something was off about you, I just didn’t know what.”  
“You think I’m bad? Did I ever tell you about Dr. Oliver Thredson?” Tate counters excitedly, sitting up.

She shakes her head, expectant.

“He was this psycho fucker that lived in the sixties. He was a psychiatrist at some insane asylum that was really fucked up, but that was just his cover. He was actually a serial killer called Bloody Face.”

“Bloody Face? Lamest serial killer name anyone’s ever come up with,” she snorts.

“His name was Bloody Face because he skinned his victims alive and used their flesh to sew a mask for himself.”

“O-Oh.”

“He used like, all their body parts, though,” Tate says, becoming increasingly animated, “and sometimes he’d rape ‘em before he killed ‘em. I bet he used human skin as a condom.”

Violet rolls her eyes, smacking at his stomach. “You’re disgusting.”

“Can you imagine, though? Peeling off someone’s flesh, cleaning it off and shit, wiping the blood and guts off, and then wrapping it around your dick and sticking it in some screaming woman? Sick, right?”

“Yeah, Tate, it is,” Violet says harshly, crossing her arms.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry.”

She leans closer, swiping her lips gently across his, the closest thing to a kiss they’ve shared since everything fell apart.

He follows her as she pulls away, smashing their mouths together, the rewarding click of teeth triggering a soft heat pulsing in his core. He grabs at her, not hard, not forceful, but full of want, and she obliges, letting him grasp her and run his hands down her body.

His thumb brushes a dull scar on the inside of her arm, the soft, pale skin rising slightly in a neat line, and they both stop, staring. Remembering.

“Do you still?” he asks softly, wincing when she quickly looks away.

“Why?”

“To cope, I guess,” she sighs. “They heal, anyway.”

And it’s like something clicks in him, the heat in his gut turns solid and starts to fill him, twisting his mouth into a sinister smile. He gets up, examines the crap on the desk in Violet’s old room--his old room--and grins, finding his prize. He walks back to the bed wielding the letter opener, handle smooth and shiny.

“Remember this?” he asks, eyebrows raised, and Violet blushes, no doubt remembering the thrill of seeing only the handle, blood-spattered and cold, protruding from Tate’s momentarily lifeless body, the whole of the blade shoved deep into his heart.

He hands it to her, and she takes it without a question. Baring the delicate skin of her wrist, she pauses, allows him to admire with her the blue-grey of her veins underneath the thin layer of flesh. She balances the blade slowly, relishing in the hitch of his breath. And then she begins to drag the sharp metal across her skin, watching thick scarlet blossom out of the cracks. She offers him her wrist.

He takes it hungrily, bringing the wound to his lips, feels the warm wetness on his mouth, runs his tongue along the bubbling gash, inhales deeply. He knows she’s remembering the first time he did this, and how much has changed. He pokes his tongue out to soothe the metallic wound, feels the blood leak between his taste buds.

And she takes the letter opener again, slices another thin line, this time faster, deeper, and Tate grabs it, greedy and desperate to take in as much as he can before it heals. His mouth is red, blood shining on his teeth, covering his lips and tongue, and he kisses her, lets her taste the liquid iron, the deep red ribbons blooming from her beautiful skin.

He grips the blade, and she knows he’s offering her a gift, a chance to finally succumb to the darkness she keeps hidden inside her, and she nods slightly, forgets to breathe for a second. He yanks it across his skin, the blood eagerly overflowing and beginning to drip down his arm, scarlet raindrops crawling lazily down a pane of glass. She swipes her tongue quickly through the red mess, feeling the liquid seep onto her tongue, startled by the comfort of the metallic taste. And that’s it.

Like a barrier is broken, all calmness is lost, all illusion of composure is gone to shit. Tate pounces, smearing his blood on every clean inch of Violet’s skin, painting her with his very essence. The blade continues to change hands, tearing at skin and cloth until there’s nothing but two bodies covered in shimmering red blood, grasping for one another and lapping at the messy puddles with anxious tongues, an endless circle of destruction and healing.

He bites her lip hard, tongue poking into the small gashes in her bottom lip, feels her hands travel down his body, feels himself harden in her gentle but eager hand. And she ducks her head, wraps the “O” of her mouth tightly, pulls her lips off with a satisfying pop. And he’s melting into her, no strength to kneel on the bed, collapses onto her as her head bobs, holds her hair so he can admire the hollows of her cheeks, the swollen lips, red from exertion and tinted with blood.

And he gladly returns the favor, first teasing her with sweet kitten licks until she’s arching her hips so violently that he has to push her back down. He can see her wholly from here, pale, decorated with red, breathing heavy. And he tastes her, clean and unbloodied here, pure and sweet, feels her moans vibrating through her entire body, and he smirks, takes pride in the pleasure he’s bestowing upon her, doesn’t stop until she’s begging for him.

He finally pushes inside her, spreads blood on the insides of her upper thighs as she opens her legs wide, then leans to smear more on her chest and stomach, relishing in the way her body arches to meet his hand. He runs fingers across the gashes decorating her, battle scars seeping victory spoils. He gazes down fondly at his warrior princess, shivers at the flash in her eyes, the change in her now that she’s opened herself up to her own mind.

They finish trembling and hot, bodies working like machines as flesh crawls to meet flesh, scarlet pools disappear slowly, and lungs begin to slow their breathing. He is wrapped around her, naked and vulnerable, and he kisses her cheek.

“I love you,” he whispers. And she nods, doesn’t say anything.

She knows.


End file.
